It’s beginning to fall dark fast; the reddish parts of deciduous trees are drifting toward purple; shadows under the pines are almost blue black.
I pull out my scope and scan the opposite hill. Near the bottom I pick up a fast-running stream. There’s a flat, gray rock above, with water fanning lightly over it. Just below, between the rock and stream, I spot movement!
The light reduction in the glasses is tremendous and I’ve started shaking so it’s hard to hold still. I slide down into the hole and brace my elbows on the parapet.
There’re three small deer browsing on moss at the base of that overhanging rock. One looks straight at me, long ears twisting to pick up sound. It can’t possibly see this far and there’s not enough light to glint on the lens.
I tuck the scope back in my belt and pull out my 2B pencil along with an opened, trimmed, flat K box.
I try to sketch what I’ve seen, the magic moment, but can’t make it. My memory isn’t strong enough and trying to put all that on a small gray surface is beyond me. It’s partly because it’s so far away, so much sky, mountain, forest; partly because I’d been expecting something else. It’s hard to transmit the joy of peace, even with a drawing.
I pull out my scope again and continue scanning the hill, trying to imagine I’m actually walking over there. I traverse the road but it’s getting so dark I can’t see much. I can just pick out Miller down by the bridge. He’s smoking and there’s a glow when he takes a drag. It looks as if he’s writing. Maybe we’re in for another puzzle, or, better yet, one of his poems. He writes poetry about all kinds of things but mostly about machinery. Words like camshaft, universal joint, differential, drive shaft, overhead shims, dual carburetor or even piston displacement are music to Miller.
I search out a little K ration four-pack from my field jacket pocket, duck down in the hole and light up. I’m down to only three a day but when I’m cold and scared it’s hard resisting. The cigarette companies thought up a sharp deal giving cigarettes to young soldiers. They’ll have us all as lifetime customers when the war’s over. (That is, if any of us are alive.) It’s one of Gordon’s best arguments.
I take a deep drag; it makes the stomach feel warmer and smooths out jitters. My stomach’s acting up a bit from the shoveling. One little shot of paregoric would help; maybe I am becoming an addict.
It’s much darker now. There’s only a blue glow against the tops of trees and a thin haze of light on the hills behind me. There’s no sense thinking about time; I’ll be finished soon enough. I’m not going anyplace, just working my way through a short-sighted war on one more short-lighted day.
I climb out of the hole and go back for a piss. God, it’s cold and now there’s a wind springing up. We probably should’ve packed overcoats. I come back and wrap myself in the shelter half. The trouble with overcoats is they’re so heavy, take up so much room. They make you feel clumsy, tied in, tight and not really warm. They’re like the stupid galoshes we wore in the mud over combat boots at Metz. They jingled with every step and were perfect for producing trench foot. Gordon screamed all night till he just couldn’t take it anymore. Morrie, Shutzer and I traded boots for socks, wore socks inside galoshes, three pairs; our arches almost broke down but we didn’t get trench foot. Then good ol’ Sergeant Hunt was going to court-martial us for losing the boots, even passed out Statement of Charges forms.
Terrible way he died, guts slipping between his fingers into the mud; stupid to the end, rocking there on his hands and knees. When he fell forward, dirt was ground into everything; nothing we could do.
I phone in. Gordon answers this time.
“Were you drunk when you made this deal, Wont? West sat on a fistful of spades and still killed a perfect four-heart bid. Goddamned Wilkins did it again. You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“Hurts to lose, huh, Mel? Maybe you should stick to medicine and music, stop trying to be the ASTPR Renaissance man.”
“Look, all I ask is next time, just try to randomize the cards; no tricks, no traps. I’m convinced Vance has you figured, can read your mind.”
“OK, Mel, I promise. I’ll make my mind a bland blank.”
“That should be easy. Try not to concentrate, or even think, OK?”
“I told you, Mel, I promise, but it’s hard shutting down a fine-tooled, high-power thinking machine like my brain. You’ve got to appreciate that.”
“Horsepiss! Now to serious things. Mother’s brewing some hash, also pork and beans. Which of our entrees would you prefer, sir?”
I choose the hash. I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat it but anything’s better than beans.
“We’re also opening up the fruit cocktail. If you’re reasonable with the next deal, we’ll save you some; we’ll even save a bit for Miller.”
“I promise; for Miller’s sake.”
I hang up. It seems even darker, lonelier, quieter. It’s always weird, cranking up and talking on a field phone at the bottom of a hole. In my mind I can see them down there around the fire, eating. I really should trade my fruit cocktail share for that lousy lunch cheese.
I keep watching for a flash of light or fire, but there’s nothing. The only thing I see is Miller lighting up, then the glow each time he takes a puff. God, I hope he is working up a crossword mind breaker; get the bridge fanatics off my back for a while.
I’m tempted to have another cigarette myself, but don’t. Mel’s convinced me. I should stop; it’s stupid to smoke, sucking on burning dead weeds.
The wind’s whistling in the highest branches; tree trunks sway, rubbing against each other, creaking like masts on a boat. There’s the rattling noise of frozen leaves blowing along the hard ground. I don’t know if I could hear anybody sneaking up or not. I look over my shoulder to make sure. The pines here were planted; there are long lines of them at almost any angle.
I call in again. I tell Wilkins to make it hash for sure. I’d fart all night with beans. I ask him to save some wine and forget the coffee. Wilkins asks if I’d like one or two scoops of the chocolate ice cream. Classic Wilkins humor; he must be OK.
“Skip the ice cream, Mother. But could you save me two cherries in the fruit cocktail?”
So now I’m committed. What the hell, maybe I can work up a real dysentery and be sent back. Whistle got a whole week in a field hospital that way once; said he slept all the time he wasn’t eating.
It doesn’t seem much later when I hear a noise beside me. I could’ve been half asleep, it came on so fast. It’s Shutzer and Mundy.
“Holy cow, you guys scared the snot out of me.”
Shutzer slides into the hole.
“Thought this place was further up the hill. Fine feathered fingers but it’s dark out here.”
I boost myself out with my arms. My legs are stiff and numb. I really could’ve been asleep.
“You’ll get used to it; nothing to see anyway. Gordon and Wilkins go down to relieve Miller?”
“Yeah, came out with us. Gordon’s so pissed about the game he’s hardly talking to anybody. That hand you set up was just the kind of thing he can’t play. It’s hard for him, laying back and waiting. Mother mousetrapped him; you know, that Wilkins is incredible.”
“How’s Mother doing?”
“Seems fine to me. You can’t play Grand Master bridge like that and have much wrong with you. Stop worrying, Won’t. It doesn’t make sense mother-henning a mother hen.”
I peer down the hill. I can see Miller trudging up past the fountains; Wilkins and Gordon are black forms against the wall. I decide again not to say anything about Mother’s run through the trees.
“You give them the password, Mundy?”
“Yeah, ‘cold—witch’; you dirty-minded army sod.”
“Here’s the scope, Stan, keep it in your pocket or tucked down inside the belt of your pants. Pass it on to the next guys.”
“What’s good’s a scope? I can’t see anything with my bare eyes even.”
“You never know, Stan. Mostly watch
those two guys down there. Look for anything moving up behind them.
“Miller will be out in two hours to relieve you, Mundy; after he eats and warms up. Stan, I know four hours is a long time in the night, but if we keep two posts there’s no other way.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Shutzer sniffs the air.
“Smells like snow coming, too.”
I gather up my shelter half. They’ve both brought along theirs. Then I realize I’ll have no use for it inside.
“Here’s one more shelter half; if it snows, you can spread it over top. Phone down on the half hour. You have your watch, Father?”
He nods. I start down the hill, then stop.
“When Miller comes, he’ll give the password from right here. OK?”
“Right, Sarge. Could you please stop it, huh? Relax. The chow’s warm and there’s almost half a bottle of wine beside the fire. There’s hot coffee in Miller’s cup.”
“Thanks.”
I go down the way they came up, but I’m looking for another way we can get to the post without walking straight across the face of this hill. About halfway down, I see a light leak where the curtain isn’t tight enough. Inside, I go over and pull it closed. I slip the grenades off my pockets, pile them in a corner with my bandolier. I stand my rifle beside the fireplace. 1 keep it loaded with one in the chamber, and locked. Miller’s already there, has his boots half off and is sitting on one of the beds eating. I’m more tired than hungry myself but I know I ought to eat.
Miller passes me the bottle of wine.
“Sumps but it’s cold in that streambed. There’s a miserable damp wind blowing right through there. I was sure my flinchin’ feet were going to freeze right off me. I still can’t feel them.”
“Be careful lighting cigarettes, will you, Bud? I could read your dog tags from up top. Some German eager beaver might crawl up behind and put one in your ear while you’re formulating immortal verse.”
“And here I am, trying to share the crankcase drain sensation just behind my nose when I’m scared: something of the smell in burning chicken feathers and tar.”
“This war’s totally out of control, Bud. Be careful.”
The hash is good. I swallow slowly, chewing carefully. I alternate bites with K ration biscuits and wash it down in wine. I had decided to skip the coffee even though it might help keep me awake.
I’m deep asleep when the phone rings. Miller’s on so he gets it; he’s still playing with his poem by the light of our fire. Gordon reports in; everything fine. Shutzer calls in next and that’s OK, too. Chess moves are passed on all around. Miller pulls out his boards, moves his pieces, stares at them. Everybody in the squad, except Wilkins and me, packs three miniature fold-up chessboards. Some games go on for days. The squad rule is, when you’re in a hole, you can only pass on your play at regular call-in time. Given a chance, they’d run the phone battery right down dead in a day.
Mother is, by far, the squad chess champ, but most times won’t play. He’ll play bridge once in a while if he has to, but insists he doesn’t enjoy chess at all.
I get up, wash Gordon’s cup out in one bucket and fill it from the other. I do the same thing for Shutzer. Sloppy Shutzer put his cup away dirty and there’s sugar like candy coated brown all over the bottom and up one side. Honest to Pete, I don’t think he ever washes his stuff; never has the shits either; must have a cast-iron stomach.
I put the cups close to the fire. They can heat up in a hurry on the primus when they come in.
I go upstairs to the toilet. This was another of our great discoveries. It doesn’t flush because we haven’t figured how to turn on the water but it doesn’t have a bowl like American toilets, so the crap drops straight down a hole. This is what I call luxury, not having to dig a latrine. Digging the regimental headquarters company latrine is, for some reason, an I and R preserve.
I’m still loose and crampy but it’s much better. Maybe some chateau living will fix me up. I come down, fill two flambeaux, move the phone, then crawl into my sack and wait. I see from Miller’s watch it’s only five minutes till the next calls but I fall asleep again anyway. I wake up scared. It must be the second or third ring I catch. It’s Gordon.
“Wilkins says he saw something on the hill across from us!”
I sit up in my sack.
“Let me talk to Mother.”
I try to control my breathing. It comes in staggered stutters. So fast, I was so deep asleep! Wilkins comes on.
“What’d you see, Vance?”
“I’m not sure, Wont, but something moved up on the hill where the big rock is. There’s moonlight shining on that rock and I saw something.”
“Could be some deer I saw earlier, Mother.”
“Yeah, could be only that; but I saw something.”
“Give me back Mel.”
The phone scrapes and rattles in my ear. Gordon comes on.
“Mel, one of you keep your eyes on that area and the other scan the road. The guys on top will watch in back of you. Challenge anybody who comes close. You guys got grenades?”
“Yeah.”
“OK, I’ll call Shutzer.”
I get Mundy.
“Father, Mother thinks he might’ve seen something up on the opposite hill beside the big rock. You see anything from there?”
“No, nothing here. That Wilkins must have eyes like an owl. I can hardly see my own hand in front of my face.”
“Could be he’s only jumpy. I saw some deer up there earlier. You guys keep an eye left, right and in back of them, OK?”
“Got it.”
“No smoking or talking till the next call-in and watch for anything coming down behind you. Call in if you hear anything suspicious. You both have grenades?”
“Yeah. Right.”
I hang up and lie back. Probably nothing. Wilkins is only nervous. Maybe I should tell the squad about our weird dash through the bushes. The news of his baby being dead did him in for sure. I graze my mind over some of it, trying to decide what I should do.
The whole of Wilkins’s life at Shelby was only empty space between weekends. When we aren’t in the field, he’s spending all his time making sure his gear’s in order, his rifle’s clean, his webbing scrubbed; all that crap. His wife has moved down into town and has a job as a waitress; all Mother cares about is getting his weekend pass.
Since he’s terribly nearsighted, he carries his head pushed forward on slumped shoulders as if peering through a haze. He doesn’t exactly look like an induction poster for the perfect infantryman, and has a miserable time with the field exercises. He barely gets his marksman medal with the Mi, and he was trying.
Hunt finds out about Wilkins’s wife being in town and makes it tough for him. He calls Wilkins “the perfesser” and rides him unmercifully. Wilkins only presses harder so he’ll get his pass; Hunt was one son of a bitch; big guy, over six feet with a red face and beer belly. His favorite threat was how he’s “gonna stomp the pissin’ outen us.”
One Saturday morning, after inspection, after Ware has done his thing, Hunt comes back, calls us together and gives a speech about how he “ain’t satisfied with the way we’re shaping up.” He’s gonna “turn us into sojurs for our own sakes”; there’s too much mollycoddlin’ going on, and so forth; a typical Hunt speech. Wilkins’d already taken down his overnight bag. He’d put it on his bunk just when Hunt came in. Hunt walks down the barracks to Wilkins.
“And this here’s the worst Goddamned goldbrickin’ fuckoff in the whole fuckin’ outfit.”
He looks at the bag on Wilkins’s bunk.
“Just where in fuck you think you’re goin’, perfesser?”
Mother stands at the foot of his bunk looking straight ahead in his hunchbacked version of attention. He doesn’t say anything.
“Well, you ain’t goin’ nowheres. Your fuckin’ ass’s confined to quarters this weekend. This is one Saterday night you’ll have to live without your cunt.”
It’s dead quiet. br />
“She’s my wife, Sergeant Hunt.”
Mother’s face is whiter than his glasses and his lips are tight, thin, blue.
“She’s just cunt like the rest of ‘em, Wilkins; all cunt wants is reg’lar fuckin’, that’s all. She ain’t no different’n the rest.”
He’s turned his back and is walking through the barracks when Mother lands on him. Hunt goes down under the impact. He had no idea, none of us had. Lewis reaches back and pushes shut the barracks’ door to the stairs.
Hunt’s on his stomach but struggles to his knees. He grunts and roars. Mother has his long legs wrapped around Hunt from the back and his heels hooked into Hunt’s crotch. He has an arm scissor hold around Hunt’s neck. Hunt reaches up to pull Wilkins’s forearm from his throat. Mother jams down hard and Hunt falls forward on his face again. Mother’s glasses are hanging from one ear. Lewis goes over, untangles them, folds them and puts them on Wilkins’s bunk. By now, except for heavy breathing and scuffling of boots against the wooden floor, there’s no sound. Hunt tries standing up again. He gets to his feet but, with a backward lurch, Mother pulls him over so he crashes against a bunk and Hunt rolls onto his stomach. Hunt tries again but his arms and legs are quivering; he slides flat onto his stomach.
We all stand watching; it can’t be more than three minutes since Mother pounced. Corrollo goes over and kneels beside them. They’re half jammed under a bunk. It’s like the last part of a desperate dog or cat fight; nothing seems to be happening anymore. Hunt’s eyes are open and his face is blue-purple.
“For Chrissake, Mother, you’ll kill him.”
“Not yet; I’ve let up some.”
Mother speaks in short breaths, low rasping; hard to hear. It’s deathly quiet. Hunt’s face turns red again, his eyes move. Mother’s voice is low pitched, edge of hysteria; he’s crying; his face is covered with sweat.